‘Is our business concluded, Master King?’ said Pritchard. ‘I would like these men to get back to their duties now, if agreeable.’
Cyril turned and marched away, his face roasting hot from the furnace and his own self-hatred. But as much as he hated himself, he hated those working men more. Their sense of purpose, their camaraderie and loyalty. But most of all the swagger of having a useful job to do in this world. How he hated them all for that. Now he had a new name to add to his list of fools who had wronged him and must pay: John Woodvine.
Chapter 5
August passed in a haze of heat and letter-writing. Margaret sat in her room, her eye on the door, her pillow on her lap, propped up to hide the latest letter from Anny. She finished reading it and swiftly hid it away in a wooden music box she kept at the bottom of her handkerchief drawer. If Cyril found these letters . . . well, it did not bear thinking about. He would have no cause to ever want a handkerchief – as a child he always was snot-nosed, but he had no interest in girlish items, so she hoped he’d never look in there. She had secured a pink ribbon around the growing stack of letters which she tied and untied fondly each time, smiling at her good fortune to have found such a correspondent and such a friend.
She had tried to explain to Anny that she had never had friends. No friends at all. The person she spent most time with was her maid, Royce, who did her hair every day and tended to her physical needs. But Royce was stiff, cold and quite old. Margaret could not talk to her. They barely spoke. Their relationship was purely functional. She’d asked her father if she could have the young, nice one, Lucy, as her maid, but she was informed that Lucy was only a tweenie maid and not at all the right class for a lady’s maid for the daughter of a King. So, Margaret could not even make a friend in her own house.
But Anny, full of sunshine and fun, surrounded by close neighbours – sometimes too close for comfort, Anny once wrote – had had plenty of friends in her life, had never been without them. Margaret, educated at home – only in writing, embroidery, French and piano-playing from a half-hearted Parisian governess who had disappeared without warning the summer before – and never permitted to speak to local children, let alone play with them, had grown to the age of twelve a lonely girl. Tormented by her brother and bullied by her father, she had become accustomed to her own company. Now Anny had appeared in her life, she was beginning to understand the magic of friendship. It was new and exciting. It was easy to allow it to become an obsession.
She tried to stop herself from gushing too much in her letters. But she found it almost impossible to play-act nonchalance and instead poured out all her feelings to Anny. Her friend did not reciprocate in kind; Anny’s letters rarely spoke of her feelings, instead they were always friendly and full of fascinating detail about her daily life. Reading about the lives of the working class was as exotic to Margaret as if she were reading about the wildlife of Africa. Anny seemed to enjoy similar details about Margaret’s life, yet Margaret felt a little ashamed every time she described the ease with which she passed her days. She sometimes invented minor troubles to make her day sound more vexing than it was, but worried this would make her sound as if she were trying to make something out of nothing. So she filled her letters with her feelings, her loneliness and her overwhelming regard for Anny. She wondered if it would help if she gave Anny presents, but would Anny take this as an insult? Margaret agonised now over that possibility. She had never had a friend before – let alone one from a different social class – and did not know how to be a friend herself.
She was a worrier, and worried about this. Still seated on her bed, staring at the drawer in which her precious letters were hidden, she thought, What if I drive her away? The thought terrified her. She wanted help; she needed someone to tell her how to be a friend, before she did the wrong thing and lost this one through some dreadful faux pas. If only there was someone she could talk to about it. Only one person sprang to mind, as there was only one person other than Anny that Margaret would ever have a hope of confiding in. ‘Grandmother,’ she said aloud. Could she talk to her about such things? There was only one way to find out.
She found Queenie seated on a high-back wing chair in the drawing room, snoring noisily. It was Mr King’s chair usually and Margaret smiled to see she’d used it to have a quick snooze, thinking herself hidden from prying servants’ eyes, yet her lusty snoring gave the game away to all and sundry.
Since her grandfather’s death three months ago, Margaret had noticed that Queenie had changed. She used to be up and about from dawn till dusk and beyond, involved in the business and socialising with local worthies and clients. Since her husband had gone, she had taken to her bed more and more. She had withdrawn from the family. And her odd comments had popped into everyday conversation. Margaret could see that her grandparents had not been particularly fond of one another, but perhaps her grandfather’s death had upset her grandmother more than anyone realised. She felt sad for her grandmother and vowed to try to spend more time in her company from now on. Perhaps they could take up a pastime together, such as playing cards or something similar, where conversation was unnecessary. Anny might enjoy her conversation, but Margaret knew none in her family, not even Queenie, felt that way.
Luckily, Benjamina was taking her afternoon rest in her own room, her father was out on business and Cyril was off roaming who knows where. Margaret came in quietly, so as not to wake her grandmother, determined to sit and wait for her to awake and for herself to build up the courage to talk to her. She had to come up with a plausible story for the friendship. The visiting cousin of some local dignitary’s daughter, perhaps; they could have met at a tea party and become correspondents. Yes, that sounded all right. That might happen. But Queenie knew that Margaret never spoke to a soul. Maybe Margaret could convince her that she had developed some confidence recently, that the girl was shy. She began to invent more and more elaborate flights of fancy about this fictional friend until she thought to herself, Why not tell her the truth? Why not try, at least? Then Queenie awoke with a start and let out a piercing cry.
Margaret leapt to her feet and went to her.
‘Are you well, Grandmother?’
‘The baby!’ cried Queenie.
Her hands rose up and were flapping about, her eyes still filmy with sleep.
‘What baby?’ asked Margaret, alarmed.
Queenie sat bolt upright and said in a low, knowing tone, ‘The baby on the bridge. That poor girl died, right there.’
Then Queenie put her hands over her face. Margaret reached out to touch her grandmother’s hands, so forlorn did she look. But Queenie awoke from her half-waking, half-dreaming moment and registered her granddaughter’s presence.
‘What’s this?’ she muttered. ‘What are you about?’
Margaret withdrew her hands and looked down, to give Queenie a moment to recover herself.
‘You were dreaming, Grandmother,’ she said quietly.
‘No, I was not,’ asserted Queenie. ‘I wasn’t even asleep.’
Margaret looked up at Queenie and their eyes met; a flicker of a smile passed on their lips, a shared, rare moment of connection between them. Minutes ago, Margaret would have taken the opportunity to ask her grandmother’s advice about her friendship with Anny. But now, something else had taken its place, something more compelling still.
‘Won’t you tell me who the baby on the bridge is, please, Grandmother?’
For a moment, Margaret thought she might answer, but all Queenie said was, ‘It’s a fortunate child that escapes the King family.’
Margaret’s feelings about her family chimed with her grandmother’s sentiment and this gave her a little courage to speak of it. ‘I feel that way, too, Grandmother.’
‘Feel?’ Queenie snapped. Queenie never did seem to have much time for feelings or talk of such things.
‘About the King family. I find it . . . difficult sometimes.’
‘You have everything you need, child.’
/> ‘I do and I am grateful. But it’s just that . . . I do feel very alone.’
‘That is the woman’s lot. We must suffer alone.’
Margaret swallowed nervously, but was determined to go on.
‘But if I had a friend, it would help me.’
‘Friend? What friend?’
‘I’ve met someone, Grandmother. And she could be a great friend to me. But I’ve never . . .’
‘Where? What? Who?’ quizzed Queenie, leaning forward and scrutinising Margaret’s face.
‘It is a girl who . . .’ Margaret hesitated. Whatever she said, however she dressed it up, she knew her grandmother’s fierce gaze would reduce it to ashes. Perhaps this was a mistake. But she had started it now and may as well finish it. Maybe her grandmother would surprise her and understand. She wouldn’t know if she didn’t try. ‘She is a local girl, a girl from the village along the river. She is employed by Mr Brotherton in the office. She can . . .’
‘What’s this? A worker? A friendship with a worker?’
‘She can read and write, Grandmother.’
‘Out of the question, child. How could you even consider such a thing? We do not mix with such people.’
‘But if you could only meet her, you would see. She is so clever and bright and . . .’
Queenie held up her hand, her palm facing outwards, as steady and rigid as a stone wall. ‘It is not so very long until you will come out into society and make acquaintances of your own class, after which you will make a good marriage and produce children. You will be too busy running a household to have time for friendship.’
Margaret saw her life stretching ahead of her into a desert of tedious yet fretful social events, ending with an arranged union of some approved male of her family’s choosing. And it terrified her. Her fear made her bold and she spoke again to her grandmother.
‘But if I could have one friend to see me through the years before that day. I am so lonely, Grandmother. Sometimes I fear I may die of loneliness.’
‘Pish-tosh! Nobody ever died of unhap . . .’ But something stopped Queenie and she did not finish her sentence. A moment of memory seemed to sweep over her features. She looked down, rearranged her hands in her lap and composed herself. ‘We are the Kings. We did not attain our position today by fraternising with the lower orders. You are your father’s daughter – a King – and you have our family name to uphold at all times. Let there be no more talk of friendships with the labouring class.’
*
Queenie told the child to run along. That little wallflower, Queenie thought. Harmless enough and a heart full of secrets, no doubt. But the child was too young to be trusted with the truth as yet, if ever. One day, perhaps, if she proved herself a bit more spirited, showed she had a bit of backbone. Queenie despised weakness. She inwardly scolded herself. She really mustn’t fall asleep during the day like that. It left her at a disadvantage. This never would have happened when her husband was alive. For all his faults, he was a marvel at organising their lives. Everything was arranged with military precision and fixed timings, every minute of the day accounted for. It gave her life a comforting structure, which she missed. The moment he died, she had watched the life rattle from his body and was surprised to find she had felt a tidal wave of relief. This man was gone from her life. Now she could begin again, regain her former self, her former life before marrying so young and disappearing into an existence for which nothing in her girlhood had prepared her. She did not have to brook his company for one moment more on this earth, and as the head of the King family she could marshal them in the right direction.
But in the days following, she began to feel inordinately tired. She could not stay awake or concentrate on things for long. She took to her bed most days, when before, a scheduled bed nap had been something she’d mocked, something that the elderly required and she did not consider herself elderly by any means, being only in her late fifties. The day after he passed away, she handed over the operations of the ironworks almost completely to her son, despite her fears that he was not up to the job. She hoped the responsibility would be the making of him. Ralph’s death had aged her, overnight it seemed. She had taken to sleeping in the day and waking all night. Everything was out of kilter. She felt adrift in her life.
She’d hated Ralph King senior by the end, of that there was no doubt. But in some ways he was a useful husband. How she had desired him once! She scoffed to think of it. But she had been young and foolish, a pretty little flibbertigibbet; she’d danced with all the local young men, and could have snapped her fingers and they would all have come running. Ralph was older, less keen. Still waters run deep, she had thought of him. She wanted to break through that cool exterior and explore his depths. But it was all a facade. Once married, she soon realised there was nothing hidden beneath. Only a frozen emptiness. He made love like he was avenging something, cold, thrusting and heartless. Bed soon became a place to be dreaded. Her girlish days were long gone, too soon. Then came the babies.
Queenie thought of her twin daughters, both dead before six months had passed: tuberculosis. Her eyes filled and she brutally slapped away the tears. No, one mustn’t give in to grief. It was forty-odd years ago, indeed. She had her son after that. And then, no more. Her husband did not visit her bed from then on. He had tired of her. He had developed a taste for virgins.
But her one child who survived, her son, had been her great hope and joy, at first. It was after his birth she’d found her strength and earned her nickname, Queenie. He was a bonny baby, plump and chuckling. But his true character soon revealed itself. Whatever differences she had with her husband, they certainly saw eye to eye on the failings of their son Ralph. Look at him now, she thought, with disgust. A great disappointment: lazy, proud and selfish. Look at the grandson, the same.
But the granddaughter . . . she might prove interesting, one day. There was something behind those shy blue eyes that made one wonder what she was thinking. Those eyes, just like Queenie’s sister, Selina. The very picture of her sister’s face – same eyes, same nose, same mouth. But the girl had none of Selina’s spirit. And there was another key difference: Margaret’s eyes were clear and open, not a shade of oddness in them. Not clouded by trouble, she thought with relief. Nothing like my dear sister.
As grateful as she was for that difference, she couldn’t help but be reminded of Selina each time she saw Margaret. She thought back to a time before she was Queenie, when she’d been just Alice and Selina had been with her every day. To have lived with her dear sister Selina forever, perhaps in a simple cottage, covered in wisteria and surrounded by pea plants, like the home of her old piano teacher. No husbands, no fathers, no children, no grandchildren – that would have been the best life she could imagine. Thinking of it now brought a tear to her eye – how happy they would have been! Alice and Selina, alone in perfect companionship. If only her life had been that way. But it had been Alice’s duty to marry well. By the time Alice was sixteen Selina was already beginning to show signs of oddness, forcing her parents to expedite Alice’s marriage. Selina had always been a curious child, creating a world filled with fairy tales, some read from delicately illustrated books but mostly weaved from her imagination. Their parents began to keep her away from visitors and the servants whispered about her below stairs. Everyone thought Selina was ill, but Alice alone knew how brilliant and bright her sister was. But difference threatens those who want to be normal and her sister was talked about in increasingly worried tones.
While Alice blossomed into an eligible young woman, her older sister retreated further into the nursery. Soon, Alice was married. It all seemed like a great adventure, until she realised that she would have to live with this man, share his bed and be subject to his every desire and whim. Alice’s absence drove her sister to worse excesses and Ralph restricted her visits with Selina to once a month. He said they had an unnatural attachment. Each visit brought a further degradation. Selina would pluck at her che
eks, cry out as if a spectre or spider had appeared above Alice’s head, talk in strings of words about people she’d never met. They took her away.
Some months later, news came that Selina had died. Years later, she discovered Selina had hanged herself from her door.
With Selina gone, Alice was alone in the world, and Ralph had the ammunition to keep her in line. What befell one sister could befall the other.
She did the only thing she could think of to survive: she made that life her own. She became the perfect wife, the perfect mother, the perfect hostess. She learnt the family business and drove it forward, making the King name the greatest in the neighbourhood, in the county and beyond. She felt she had truly earned the name of Queenie.
But at what cost? It was always the females who seemed to pay the price. It was a hard fact but it was true, and her granddaughter needed to learn that now, the sooner the better. Life was hard for everyone but hardest for the weak. The way through life was littered with the corpses of those who could not stay the journey. Only the strong survived.
She thought of the night before, when she had looked from her bedroom window, sleepless as ever, and watched the family tombstones glow whitely in the bright moonlight. How she wished she could have seen her sister’s spirit there, flitting between the graves, her long, pale hair catching the moonbeams, silvery and spectral. She did not believe in ghosts. It was all stuff and nonsense the common people spoke of in their uneducated ignorance. But how good it would be to see her sister again, even as a spirit. And how curious it would be, that her spectre should appear in this graveyard, when her body was buried long ago, not here, but in that dreadful place, the place where strangers would pay pennies to view the inmates, a kind of zoo of human misery. How cruel people are. She thought of the ghosts of her dead daughters, how dearly she would love to see them playing amongst the gravestones. They would laugh and chase each other, their skirts and beribboned hair fluttering in some spectral breeze. They had died as babies, so they would not come to her as proper little girls, but she could dream, couldn’t she? She would call to them and they would turn and smile at her, then continue their frolics. She thought then of the baby on the bridge, crying out in the night, its mother dead and cold in the grave. She recalled the day Jenkins had told her, that the maid she’d dismissed had been found dead on the bridge. But there was more: gossip had spread that the girl had been holding a baby, which someone had taken in. She thought of her husband’s icy heart, dead too now. Queenie shuddered, then shook her head to rid it of all maudlin thoughts.
The Daughters of Ironbridge Page 5
